


all dressed up for a hit and run

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Series: dropofrum sampler [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Light Angst, but it works out!, i'm too weak to write anything but happy endings sooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 01:09:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: "I had adate,"she hisses. "I hadreservations. Until you set the Italian Houses of Parliament onfire.""A very small fire!" he protests. "That I immediately put out! Doesn't that count?!"Or, Jon is James Bond (except way less suave), Sansa is Moneypenny (except way less obvious), executive aide to the man who runs the MI6, and the path to love is littered with missile-toting baddies - and the occasional corpse.





	all dressed up for a hit and run

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in literally 45 minutes - that's a RECORD for me - so like. this might be a mess. don't @ me. work title from 'Hit and Run' by LOLO.

**I.**

The first time, Agent 998 saunters into the foyer outside M's office in an impeccable tuxedo and with a bloody lip.

"Agent."  
Jon smiles, crookedly. "Miss Stone."  
"I hear you blew up a village in Germany."  
An eyebrow rises. "One hut," he corrects, holding up a finger. "One. And it was in Poland. Nobody gives a shit about Poland."

Sansa's lips twitch, but she holds back a smile. He has a point there.

* * *

**II.**

Her computer screen flashes with an incoming arrival alert.

_Agent 998._

She grins, turns to the lift bay, and watches the number rise. And then she hears it, a muffled shout, a series of heavy thumps.

When the elevator doors open, he's slumped against the back wall, clutching a shoulder, battered and bruised and grinning.

There are... corpses on the floor around him. Bloodied corpses. One's still twitching.

"Hey."  
Sansa glares. "You know _I_ have to clean that up, don't you?"  
Jon winces. "Could you- I need a doctor. I think I dislocated my shoulder."

Sansa scowls harder. "Good."

* * *

**III.**

The third time, she's waiting for him.

"You broke Oxford!"  
Jon blinks. He's wearing ratty jeans and a t-shirt that is almost indecently thin and he looks... God.

"Wha...?"  
"You broke Oxford! You arsehole! I was going to go shopping! Do you know La Senza had a sale? Buy two, get three free! Three!"

"Isn't La Senza the lingerie place?"

"It's a bloody crater now, isn't it?! You know, the whole _point_ of the MI6 is when you lot fuck up, the damage report's in _another_ country! Stop blowing up my city!"

"You know there were Russians, yeah? With missile-launchers?"

"Stop. Blowing. Up. My. _City!"_  
Jon arches a brow, and then saunters into M's office without a backward glance.

* * *

 

Three days later, Sansa receives six perfectly-fitted La Perla sets in the mail. The note reads, _'With love, from Russia.'_

So there's that.

* * *

**IV.**

The fourth time, Jon walks into the foyer, shoulders slumped in exhaustion and-

stops.

"Oh, shit. Wow."

Sansa arches a brow at him, propped up against her desk, ankles crossed, arms crosssed, and feeling quietly homicidal.

"You- uh..." Jon runs a hand through his hair, eyes lingering at the hem of her too-short, emerald green bandage dress, fitted so perfectly it looks like it's been shrink-wrapped around her body. "You goin' somewhere?"

"I was."  
"Yeah?"  
"I had a date."  
Jon reminds himself that murder - outside of work - is actually a crime. "That sounds... nice."

"It _was_ ," she hisses. "Joffrey had made _reservations_. Until you set the Italian Houses of Parliament on **_fire_**."

"A very small fire! That I - _immediately_ \- put out!"

"And broke into their classified sub-level archives?"

"There was a map?"

"And stole a yacht!"

"Again, Miss Stone, a very _small_ ya-"

"The NATO Supreme Allied Commander's yacht!" Sansa snaps.

"Shit. Was it really?"

Sansa huffs. "Fuck off. M's waiting. And I need to start on damage control."

Jon stops with a hand on the doorknob, eyes trained on the wood grain of the door, and says, very softly, "There was a strapless set in the... care package. Black lace, red silk trim."

"I know," comes the purred reply from the desk behind him. "It's very comfortable."

 _"Fuck,"_ he hisses, not daring to turn around.

And only after he's entered M's office, and the door has clicked shut behind him, Sansa permits herself a very small, very pleased smile.

* * *

 

A week later, Sansa finds out Joffrey Lannister has been relocated to... Siberia. But she's probably reading into that too much.

Right?

Right.

* * *

**V.**

The fifth time, the foyer is dark when Jon arrives, the desk there deserted. The door to M's office is ajar but no light spills out, save for the silvery gleam of the city's skyline.

Jon pushes the door open slowly, one hand on the butt of his revolver, but it's only the ubiquitous Miss Stone, silhouetted against the windows of a darkened room, a glass of bourbon cradled in one hand.

She shows no sign of hearing him, but when takes a step inside, she says, "Did you kill him?"

 _How does she know?_ "Yes."

"Good." She steps over to the decanter, sloshes some amber into a second glass with uncharacteristic sloppiness.

A pause. He picks up the glass, joins her side at the window. "You knew Ramsay?"

"He was my last mark."  
"Your last... You were an _**agent?"**_  
She smiles, still staring out the window. "Agent 989, at your service."  
"What happened?"

Her smile dissipates. "The job went wrong. I was... There was a mole. Ratted me out." Her fingers have gone white around the glass. "He... He tried to extract information. From me." Her sentences turn choppy, half-finished. "He tried. He didn't manage but. But. He tried. For a long. Long time."

"You should've told me," Jon says lowly.  
"Why?"  
"I would've- I would've made it... last longer."  
She watches him from beneath her lashes, her lips dark and gleaming from the bourbon. "How did he die?"

"Knife to the throat. He choked on his blood."

Her eyes flutter shut, and she shakily replaces her empty glass back on the side-cabinet. Jon follows, and then her hands are curling around his neck, nails scraping through his hair, and when her mouth meets his, she's all teeth, all savagery and wolfblood, and Jon groans, hungrily tracing the dip of her spine, the perfect curve of her arse, the way her body feels against, soft and hot and sweet.

The minutes blur together, their mouths meeting in urgent, heated frenzy, until she gentles, sweetens, laughs against his lips as if some terrible weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

When she pulls away, her eyes are bright, her lips pink, her cheeks flushed, her pretty hair a little mussed. She's _perfect_.

Jon watches her walk away, silent, his heart still pounding, his brain squawking, _'What? What just- What? Did that just- What?'_

She pauses at the door. "My name's Sansa."

"Jon," he croaks in response, and she slants him the briefest flash of a smile, before leaving him in an empty office to try and catch his breath.

* * *

 

**_\+ I._ **

* * *

 

**_Three Years Later_ **

She's there.

She's just...

He's been looking for her for so long, and now, she's just _there,_ sitting on a bench in the middle of a bridge, in Paris, in a dark blue peacoat, her hair all pulled up into a messy bun, her cheeks pink from the cold, and Jon doesn't know how to-

How to _deal_ with this.

So he doesn't.  
He walks over, sits down beside her, and Sansa makes no move to acknowledge his presence, except for a faint upward curl of her lips, like she's been expecting him. Like she wanted to be found.

"There's a restaurant, near where I live," Jon begins softly, eyes trained ahead, past the railing and the serpentine twists of the Seine, far out to the horizon where the sky is a steely, autumnal grey. "They do this coq-au-vin that is... It's life-changing. And there's this lemon gateau they do, right, on crackled caramel, little scoop of vanilla bean on the side... You won't _believe_ how good it is."

"Sounds nice," she murmurs, and that smile hasn't disappeared yet. Her cheek dimples, and Jon watches her from the corner of his eye.

"You left the MI6."  
Her eyes flutter closed for a long beat, before opening. "Only a week before you did too."

"Yeah but _I_ left because-" He cuts himself off, and instead asks, "Were you in Paris this whole time?"

She shakes her head. "Moved around a bit."  
"Under a false name?"  
She looks at him, eyes watching him carefully. "Yes."  
Jon nods.  
"Jon... Did you look for me?"  
He swallows. There's no good answer here. "I- I didn't know if you wanted me to."  
"Did you look anyway?"

He breathes out, forces his fists to uncurl, palms resting on his knees. "Yes," he confesses, and Sansa's hand comes over his, until he turns his palm and their fingers interlace, and it feels like two pieces of a whole clicking together.

A perfect fit.

"Let me take you to dinner," he says, a little hoarse, and Sansa curls into his side, resting her head on his shoulder, her hand tightening in his. "Sansa, let me..."

"Yes," comes the reply. Her thumb sweeps over his knuckles, unbloodied, unbruised, and Jon is whole again.

He lifts their joined hands, presses a kiss against the back of her hand. Her skin is warm, softer than silk, and Jon's heart feels dangerously unbalanced, too full to leave space for his lungs, as Sansa adds, "I think I'd like that. Very much."


End file.
